Sacrifice
by labonsoirfemme
Summary: An important discussion on the eve of battle. Tristan/OC. Rated for present but non-explicit sex. Previously published under Wyvern159, but deleted from that penname and moved to this one.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters, only the characterization of Clarisant. Everything else belongs to Le Morte d'Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory, Touchstone Pictures, and Jerry Bruckheimer Films.

**AN: **Some of you may recognize this story. I had it published here under the penname Wyvern159, but deleted it from there and moved it to this penname to consolidate everything. It's also been edited a bit to improve the cadence, to take out parts I don't like and/or replace them with something I like better.

The character Clarisant is real, more or less. She is Gawain's sister from the Arthurian legends. For the purpose of the Sarmatia theory, let us say that Gawain was fostered with Clarisant's family. In those times, it was not uncommon for children to be raised in other households as a "son/daughter" or "brother/sister."

Rated for present but non-explicit sex.

Tristan/OC

--

_Sacrifice_

The Saxon fires glimmered endlessly to the north of Hadrian's Wall. Bawdy laughter and intermittent, drunken drum beats drifted brokenly across the plain. The village below the wall was uncharacteristically quiet; men drank themselves down, not up, and women rocked already sleeping babies.

Clarisant shrugged her shawl higher up onto her shoulders to blot out the chill of the night air. The breeze carried the smoke straight into her face, burning her eyes and making her nose itch. Next to her, Gawain hooked his thumbs into his belt and regarded the enemy army with distant eyes. Lancelot paced irritably a bit farther down the wall, muttering angrily to Bors.

"Do not look so sullen, Gawain," she said, hooking her arm through his. "It is not a good look for you."

He shook his head and pushed his blond hair back behind his ears. "I fear for the people of this land. They are all but promised carnage and waste." As if to prove his point, a lone child began crying below them in the village.

"Arthur offered them the choice of coming with us and many of them are," she replied. He shook his head in regret though and chafed her cold hand where it rested on his arm.

"And the rest?" He laughed once, a harsh bark in the biting air. "There is only so far south these people can run."

Clarisant shrugged, dejected. A coughing fit overtook her as the wind brought a fresh wave of smoke over the wall.

Punching her arm lightly, he said, "Go to bed, Clarisant; traveling is not a restful occupation."

"As if I don't know, _little _brother," she replied sardonically. "You go to bed early as well. Give those tavern girls a quiet night for once."

His bellowing laugh followed her down the stairs of the wall.

----

Clarisant carefully placed one letter after another in the small chest, mindful of their delicate folds. It was her final task; the rest of her belongings had already been packed into their trunks and were ready to be loaded into carts the next morning. Behind her, the door to her room creaked slightly as it swung open and the clicking of the lock preceded padded footfalls across the planked floor.

She felt the air move about her shoulders as he swept her brown curls off of her back and over her left shoulder. His fingers tugged the neckline of her nightgown to the side and his warm breath ghosted across her skin before he placed a kiss at the side of her neck.

"You'd better have bathed," she stated, not halting in her packing.

He murmured in assent, but the wet strands tickling her skin and the sharp aroma of the clean night air rising from his skin had given her the answer before he had even touched her. His lips skimmed her ear and his hands stroked over her hips. One hand left its post and the bowstring-calloused fingers gently turned her face towards his. Clarisant smiled against his lips and returned his insistent affection.

"What're you doing?" Tristan asked after nipping her bottom lip in parting.

"Getting letters together," she replied. "From Father and Mother, Gawain, and...you." She winked at him, nudging him aside to carry the full case across the room to the stack of trunks by her door.

When she turned around again, he was sitting at the foot her bed, taking off his boots. Clarisant paused to admire his profile set in relief against the glowing fireplace. Her heart puttered quickly when he turned his cool grey eyes to her in a silent question. Assuring him of nothing with a soft smile, she moved slowly to him.

His hands pulled her fingertips to his mouth, where he kissed them and then put them on his shoulders. "All packed?"

"Mm. Yes," she hummed, fingering one of his impromptu dreadlocks. The tips of his brown hair were still damp, and she smiled, her eyes full of mirth. Only for her did he ever do more than dunk his head under the river's surface. Tristan's languid expression fell into one of light annoyance.

"Yea, yea," he muttered darkly, "you have me twisted around that little finger of yours." He turned his head and licked the offending digit to illustrate his point, looking up at her wolfishly. She crinkled her nose in slight distaste and swatted at him.

"You're a beast," she announced snobbishly.

"And you say that as though you don't like it," he purred in reply.

The skin along her spine tightened. That voice, that voice... He had always known how to use it against her, hadn't he? After all, it was his low rumble that had immediately separated him from the other knights.

She dropped her hand to his cowl. The pin, topped with Lancelot's account of the Sarmatian seal, slid from the fabric easily. Tristan bent his head forward to aid her in the unwrapping of the garment from his shoulders. After it was removed, she folded it carefully and set it on the desk.

The lines of Tristan's body were tense even as he reached out one hand in beckoning. Clarisant took it with one of hers and raised the other to gently massage the back of his neck. However, he brushed her gesture away by tossing his head. "We'll have time for that later, Clarisant," he promised, toying with the bodice laces of her shift.

"I'm sure," she replied lowly, remaining still as Tristan untied the laces. The cold air rushed down the front of her dress, shocking her body into a single violent shiver. She stepped away and moved to the head of the bed, unceremoniously shucking her gown before diving between the covers. "Come to bed, Tristan," she ordered.

Quickly removing his heavy tunic and braes, he crawled into bed and wrapped her up in his arms. Her mouth was warm against his, her tongue smooth and coaxing. The coarse hair on his legs rasped against her goose-bumped skin. His hands chafed her sides and back, restoring with friction the warmth that the cold room had sapped from her. Their mouths fought for dominance, and as usual he won out, rolling her onto her back and pressing her down into her soft mattress—a mattress much nicer than his own in the soldier's barracks. Clarisant welcomed his solid weight and wrapped her legs about his waist to bring him even closer to her. Tristan's hands and mouth danced along her cheeks, jaw, neck, breasts...worshipping her body wherever he could reach.

Clarisant arched against him and dipped her fingers along his scars and the hollows between his muscles, urging him on. Their quiet whispers reassured each other as he pressed into her. He ignored her protestations and latched onto her collarbone, sucking hard at the skin there while they rocked slowly against each other. Curling up tightly, she bit his shoulder with a shudder and lay gracefully back onto the pillows. Only moments later, he groaned against her skin and surged forward into her hips once more. Breathing hard, Tristan kissed the mark he'd just created and burrowed down in the covers next to her. His fingers traced the contours of her face and kept her tethered to reality instead of drifting off into dream world.

She kept her eyes closed, breathing deeply to steady her heart, and concentrated on the feel of his fingertips sliding down the bridge of her nose, outlining her lips, and brushing along her cheekbones. Finally, she turned her head and watched him focus intently on skimming the outline of her jaw.

"I love this," he murmured into her shoulder, lowering his hand and running the flat of his palm across the skin just above her breasts.

"So it is just my body you are after, hmm?" Clarisant joked, rolling onto her stomach and propping up on her elbows. Tristan smirked at her and stroked down the shallow indent of her spine. "Tell me about Sarmatia, Tristan," she murmured into the quiet.

His hand stilled against her back. "I don't remember it too well."

She frowned at him. "You remember it the best, next to Bors. You and he are the oldest of the knights."

"I've already told you so much about it."

"Then tell me again," she half-ordered, half-pleaded impatiently. "You look so peaceful when you speak of Sarmatia, and of going back."

He contemplated for a moment, looking into the fire beyond the foot of the bed. He leaned forward and kissed her shoulder. "It rains a lot, and the ground is marshy because of it. You have to be careful with the horses so that they don't get thrush from all the moisture. The winters are hard, but worth it because the deep snow yields to the tall reeds in the spring time. Before I left, my sister used to be shorter than the reeds and so she always played hiding games in them. I would pretend to look for her, even though I could see her clearly because I could just look down from above the tops of the reeds. Our family lived right next to the sea, and so to get fresh water we had to hang heavy blankets up in the fog. You've never had to really deal with this here in Briton. The water from the fog gets trapped in the fabric and drips into the buckets below."

"And the summers?" She asked, her eyes closed. Behind her eyelids, the scenes of his childhood and his mysterious homeland took shape, the gaps filled by the mists of her own imagination.

He laughed, a low rumble in his chest. "You know the stories as well as I do. Why don't you tell me?" She opened her eyes and made a face at him, so he pressed his lips to her chin and continued. "The summers are hot, and sometimes the only way to cool down is to go jump in the sea or wait for the rain. Alesse complained all the time about being too hot so Mother made me take her to the sea to go swimming."

His voice trailed off into silence, and his chest rose and fell in a deep sigh. Clarisant hooked her leg over his and kissed him softly. "You're beautiful, Tristan," she murmured.

"And you," he replied softly, pressing a lock of her hair to his lips.

"Mm."

"Don't be too modest, darling," he said snidely. She slapped his chest lightly.

Tristan slid his arms around Clarisant's waist and apologized to her mouth, her neck, her shoulders... "Love you," he murmured against her skin.

She laughed softly and wove her fingers through his hair. "You're unusually affectionate tonight," she commented. He rested his cheek against her breast and nudged his nose against her clavicle. "Are you so extremely about tomorrow?" In spite of her teasing tone, Tristan's brow furrowed and he rolled off her to lie on his back and stare at the ceiling. "Tristan?" She questioned, her tone reserved and careful. If he felt cornered, he would clam up tighter than the seams of a newly-built cottage.

He remained silent for a few heartbeats, and then answered, "Tomorrow...tomorrow. I will not live to see the sun set tomorrow, Clarisant." His grey eyes locked solidly with hers as he spoke softly.

"Do not say such things, Tristan," she whispered darkly, sitting up. "We are leaving for Sarmatia tomorrow. We are going to go back to your homeland and we are going to live there...live quietly, without war and death breathing down our necks."

Her voice shook dangerously, and he sat up, wrapping his arm about her shoulders and drawing her head to the crook of his neck. "I am loyal to Arthur. And I know he will stand to protect this land, by himself if need be. I can not, will not, leave him to his death. I pledged my life to him and I will honor that promise to the death." Gasping, she shoved herself free from his grasp.

"For sake of Christ, Tristan!" She cried. "Stop it! You have your discharge papers. You don't _have_ to stay with him. You. Are. Free. Why can we not just leave this place? Just leave and have our _own_ life. Be loyal and pledge our lives to only each other. Oh, Tristan," she said, taking his face in her hands, "Tristan. Do not leave me. I cannot imagine life without you."

He chuckled lowly. "Believe me; you are young enough and beautiful enough to find a new man. One much younger and more handsome than me."

"Do not make this into a joke," she hissed.

Sobering, he pressed his forehead to hers. "You knew this about me when we started. Arthur, and my allegiance to him, far surpasses my own life."

"You did not choose this fate."

"It is my fate, none the less."

"What about the others? Will they choose to stand with you? Lancelot will not, he misses Sarmatia far too much and can't wait to return."

"They will. As for Lancelot, Arthur is his best friend and would not dare let him die without first giving up his own life."

Clarisant let her eyes slide shut and she slumped against her headboard. "There's no way to convince you is there?" she questioned softly. Tristan sighed and fell back against the pillows.

"No, there isn't."

They silently watched the fire die down to embers. Clarisant had forgotten to close the shutters of the window and without the warmth of the fire she began to shiver. He reached down and tucked the blanket around their bodies.

"What am I going to do without you?" Her soft question broke the silence.

"You should marry. Stop living in sin, as you Christians say. Maybe one of the other Knights—a survivor of tomorrow's battle. They are the only ones who would be worthy of you. Galahad, perhaps. He likes you."

"What? You must be teasing," Clarisant said, surprised.

Tristan smirked and interlaced his fingers across his stomach. "No, I am not. He talks about you all the time. 'Clarisant said this to me,' 'Clarisant danced with me,' 'I am thinking about asking Clarisant to go on a picnic with me.' It is all I can do to not laugh out loud and declare my own observations of what you do."

Eyes twinkling, she said, "And what do I do, dear Knight?"

His own eyes twinkled with something much different than laughter. Leaning up, he whispered in her ear and she blushed fiercely at what he said. "I do not make noises when you do that!" she laughed. He softly pressed his mouth to hers.

"Give him a chance. Consider it my...dying wish," he muttered sardonically.

She swallowed. "How do you know that you will die, and others will live?"

"Because I am going after Cerdic, to weaken him before Arthur meets him in battle. I am no match for the Saxon at hand to hand, but it will be enough. The others will not interfere with the match between Cyrus and Arthur. They will see it as a match of honor between the two leaders. But there is no such thing as honor on the battle field," he explained. "Do you understand? And do you understand that I wish for you to be happy, even without me?" His voice was earnest as he spoke to her.

She wanted to burst out once more, telling him that she would never be able to be happy without him. She wanted to tell them that after tomorrow, the sun would be as dark as the night, and the rivers' waters will never seem as clear. "I do," she said instead. If those were the words that would strengthen him in battle, then those would be the words he would hear from her that night.

--

Clarisant lifted her gaze from her hands at the sound of a horse approaching. Tristan's mount walked purposefully next to her cart, which was heading the caravan. "We are going to Arthur now," he said. Nodding, she dropped her gaze. "Clarisant." His voice was much closer, and a turn of her head found her lips locked against his.

"I love you," she whispered when they parted.

"And you," he replied, his face hardened and battle-ready. "Until next time."

Without another word, Tristan spun his horse around and galloped away, not looking back once. When his figure became indistinguishable from the other nights, Clarisant wearily slid her curtains closed and settled back into her pillows.

"Drive on," she called to the driver, who was awaiting orders and wisely not questioning what he had just witnessed. The steadiness of her voice surprised her. "Arthur's men are giving us a chance; we should not waste it by slowing down."

--

Tristan was laid to rest befitting his rank. Clarisant stood at the foot of his grave, her heavy fur-lined cloak held tight around her body. Still, she shivered. Tristan, her Tristan, was now dead and buried. Yes, that was his bow and his arrows at the head of it, a temporary marker to distinguish his mound of dirt from all the others. She would never see him again, never touch his skin or sting from his biting wit ever, ever again. It was hard to grasp that just a few days ago he _was_; he was speaking and eating and breathing. And now he didn't exist, he wasn't there anymore. The body they buried had already been empty, the ceremony had just been…a formal finality.

"I'm sorry." Galahad's voice came from just behind her. "I know that you two were friends."

Clarisant nodded slowly. "Yes. We were. Very good friends. He was almost like...another brother, I suppose." Let the others stay in the dark. For seven years she and Tristan had been nighttime lovers, and still nobody had any idea.

His hand fell on her shoulder. "You know," he started tentatively, "if you ever need to talk, you can always come to me." She examined the fall of his black curls around his handsome face, and the softness of his eyes. "I think we might be staying in Briton now. We need to help Arthur and Guinevere keep the peace. And, after all, Sarmatia hasn't been our home for fifteen years. Our families might be dead. We don't know. But we know what is here and we are willing to fight to protect it," he finished with conviction.

_"They are the only ones that would be worthy of you. Galahad. He likes you."_ Tristan's words echoed painfully in her mind.

"I am proud to know such loyal men as you knights," Clarisant said. "And I know that Tristan—and Lancelot and Dagonet—loved you all very much." He wasn't unattractive, she supposed, and he was a good man.

"Yes, we were all very close."

She would always love Tristan. "Galahad. Would you escort me back to my home? I'm sure dinner is almost ready. I would be glad to have you stay the meal. You and I haven't had a nice talk in a while."

The grin that appeared on his lips seemed to split his face in two. "No, we haven't." She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and allowed him to steer her between the graves of the fallen soldiers.

She would see her archer in the next life.


End file.
